Locked Up
by MyPrivateLaughter
Summary: John and Sherlock have managed to lock themselves in a murderer's basement. No windows, phone signal or light switch. Not good. Sherlock however sees this is the perfect time to uncover the cause of John's 'angst'. Is he prepared for the discovery?
1. Chapter 1

_NB: Hello! New story (and I have a new name, in case you didn't notice!) This is meant to be before they get together, to avoid any confusion. Please let me know if you like! … or not ;)_

Sherlock has somehow attained a key to the suspected murderers house. John does not want to know how. He also does not want to think about why Sherlock thought the best way to proceed with the investigation would be to break into the suspected murderers house. Maybe this would be alright if the murder lived in a semi-detached in the city, but when it is a decomposing mansion with no other buildings for half a mile, John begins to develop a bad feeling about entering at dusk without permission.

"I have a bad feeling about this," John says.

"Where's your sense of adventure, John?" Sherlock sounds a little too excited. It's almost as if he wants to be caught, tortured and then killed. He takes a cursory glance around them before sliding the key into the lock, turning it and pushing the old wooden door open.

"Back where you left your common sense," John mutters, switching on his torch to light the large hallway. "What exactly are we looking for?"

"You don't need to whisper," Sherlock says confidently. "He will spend two and a half hours at the Rose and Crown. Longer if he's grooming his next victim."

"Excellent."

Sherlock pushes open a door on his left and they enter a drab looking living room with no TV and a sofa that is collapsing in the middle. "It's always surprising what someone will leave hanging around in a place they think is private."

"Yes," John says, suddenly remembering something he'd been meaning to bring up, "talking of which, you haven't been borrowing my underwear by any chance? Some has gone missing."

Sherlock swings his head around to face John. "I have my own underwear. Why would I borrow your underwear?" he demands.

"I don't know, Sherlock. That's why I'm asking."

Sherlock frowns and then turns back to examining the dust on the coffee table.

"Well?" John asks after a moment's silence.

"This isn't the time for a chat," Sherlock says. "Mr Jones might be back any minute."

"I thought you said -"

"Shut up, John. I'm trying to think."

John tries not to think about why he had agreed to come here tonight. He'd actually had a date, with an actually very attractive young IT assistant. I am mental, he tells himself. There's no other explanation as to why I would let Sherlock Holmes talk me into this.

They had only made it into the kitchen when they heard the distinctive sound of the front door opening and footsteps in the hall. John exchanges a glance with Sherlock who beacons him down some steps into the basement, closing the thick metal door behind them.

They turn their torches off and listen intently.

"I think he's going upstairs," Sherlock breathes.

"I can't hear anything."

"This is a reinforced steel door. I wonder why. He must have forgotten his wallet."

"Can you hear him?"

"I can feel the vibrations in the wall."

John is suitably impressed. He still can't help pointing out, "Two and a half hours, you said."

They wait in silence for what seems like a very long time. Eventually, Sherlock clears his throat.

"John," he says slowly, "I may have may have made a slight but crucial miscalculation."

"Yeah, most people call that a 'mistake'," John whispers back.

"The door that I just closed only opens from the outside."

"The reinforced steel door you just closed?"

"Hm, the light switch must be outside the door too." Sherlock quickly hops down the stairs, the light from his torch bouncing on the small basement's walls. "There must be another way out. A window. Ventilation."

John lets his head fall in his hands. "Why, Sherlock? Why would he reinforce the door but leave a window? I can't believe this. I'm calling Lestrade."

"No! Not yet!" Sherlock cries, holding a hand up. "We can deal with this."

John gets his phone out all the same. Nothing prepared for the reality of their situation. "Ok, I have no signal. Please tell me you have signal right now."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and pulls out his phone. "We don't need Lestrade." He glances down at his phone and then quickly back up at John, his eyes wider than calm.

"Jesus Christ." John's brain begins to buzz with something like worry. "This is not happening. This is not happening. We're going to have to call for help."

Sherlock gives him a condescending glare. "I think considering the combination of murder weapons and murderer upstairs that should probably be a last resort."

"_Last_ resort? What other option do we have right now?"

Sherlock continues his futile search of the brick walled, concrete floored basement that is little more than five metres square. "For the time being, John, it would be most sensible to wait."

"Wait?" John hisses. "For what?"

"Look, there's no need to freak out."

"I'm not freaking out. I am reacting perfectly reasonably considering that we are locked in a murderers basement."

"The good news," Sherlock announces, "is that the freezer down here has never been defrosted."

"Excellent," John laughs, holding up his hands as if he's thankful to god. "That's, that's just brilliant. _Why_?"

"Given the reasonably cool conditions, we could probably survive 10 days without drinking but with the amount of ice in that freezer, if we let it defrost, I'd say we have around 20 days, maybe longer for me."

"Why longer for you? No, hang on. We are not going to be stuck down here for 20 days. That is just not going to happen."

"Your certainty intrigues me." Sherlock genuinely seems interested as to how John has deduced this.

"Well, he's bound to come down here before we starve to death."

"Death by dehydration is more likely."

"No, him coming down here is more likely."

Sherlock makes a high-pitched noise to demonstrate amusement. So frustrating does John find this that he decides he doesn't want to know Sherlock's incredible, and no doubt accurate, reasoning for the belief that Mr Jones will stay out of his reinforced basement. Instead, John gets out his phone again. "There must be signal somewhere in this room. Give me your phone." John spends the next half an hour searching high and low for a single spot where the phones do not say 'no network'. Meanwhile, Sherlock reclines on the basement steps, his eyes closed, humming a tune that sounds familiar in the way a lot of classical music does.

"Ok, why are you not freaking out?" John eventually demands, turning his torch on the relaxing detective.

Sherlock doesn't bother opening his eyes. "Mycroft will realise we're missing soon enough and work out where we are. Probably."

"Oh, that's comforting. Thank you, Sherlock. I feel much better knowing that there is a chance that your brother might find us sometime before we die of dehydration in 20 days. If the murderer doesn't come down first."

"Yes, that would be the better option."

"How?" John cries.

"If he doesn't know we're here we can surprise him."

"Yes, the happy surprise that the two men he just murdered had defrosted his freezer. My god, I wish I'd gone on that date tonight." Infuriatingly, Sherlock is giving him a completely inappropriately intense look. "What?"

He's looking concerned. That's what Sherlock is trying to do, John realises. He's trying to be concerned. "What's wrong?" Sherlock asks.

"'What's wrong?' Seriously? What do you think is bloody wrong?"

Sherlock frowns. "I don't know. You are not dealing with this situation the way I thought that you would. You are a soldier, John."

"Yes, I am aware of that."

"We have been in potentially life-threatening situations before. You are a man who knows how to keep his cool. I am led to believe, therefore, that something other than the present situation is causing you to be anxious."

John puts his hands on his hips. "Go on then, detective. Let me know when you've worked it out."

Sherlock nods to accept the challenge. "I will. Now, I think we should turn the torches off to conserve battery power."

"Oh my god," John sighs. He sits next to Sherlock on the basement steps and resignedly switches his torch off. They flicker into blackness.

The room echoes with the hum of the freezer.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"I may have borrowed your underwear."


	2. Chapter 2

The darkness and isolation is complete. In the small, concreted basement, there's not even a crack of light from the outside world. John waves a hand in front of his own face but can't make it out. He can only tell that Sherlock is still sitting nearby from the soft sound of humming.

"Why?" John asks. "Why do you have my underwear?"

"Do you need them?"

"That's not the point."

"Well, you clearly had more than you needed, based on your washing routine. I didn't think you'd even notice."

"I noticed. I'm not that unobservant."

"You didn't notice the pyjamas."

"Will you shut up about your damn pyjamas?" John cries. "For god's sake!"

"I'll stop talking about the pyjamas when you stop talking about the underwear."

John falls into a reluctant silence. The pyjamas. Why does he keep bringing up the pyjamas? Why would he care that John hadn't noticed his new pyjamas? What same-sex flatmate is supposed to notice that? Of all the things for Sherlock to be concerned about, John's awareness of his bedwear never seemed a likely one.

Sherlock continues to hum his melancholy tune. It's soft and strangely seductive rolling out in Sherlock's deep breaths.

"What is that?" John asks. "Mozart?"

Sherlock snorts his derision. "Bach."

"Right. Bach. I remember you playing it. It's pretty bleak."

John doesn't like the sensation of talking without seeing. It makes him feel strangely vulnerable, as if Sherlock may have somehow run off and left him sitting there talking to himself.

"Some people say it was written when Bach was mourning his first wife," Sherlock explains. "He came home from travelling and found she had died suddenly and been buried for a month."

"Really? Wow. That is bleak."

"Yes, makes you think twice about long trips away, doesn't it?"

John agrees without really considering what is being implied. Then he wonders who is Bach and who is the wife in that situation. He can't help saying, "I hope I don't find you dead next time I come back from Harry's or something."

"You're more likely to get yourself killed," Sherlock says flippantly.

"You're more likely to forget to eat."

"I'm sure you'd be fine without me."

"I wasn't," John says, a little too quickly.

The black absorbs the silence.

Sherlock isn't humming anymore and John doesn't like it. It may have been mournful, but it was a comfortingly 'Sherlock' noise. Now he can't even hear the rasp of Sherlock's breath.

Soon, the silence becomes unbearable. John doesn't really care what he says, but he knows that he has to say something, if only to prove that he is still alive."Sherlock," he decides upon, "do you think we're going to die?"

"Murdered or dehydration?"

"Either."

"There's a possibility."

"How high a possibility?"

Sherlock doesn't hesitate. "It's more likely that one of us will die and the other will escape but I'm really quite hopeful that we'll both be fine."

"You think I'm going to die, don't you," John says, unable to keep the scowl from his voice.

"There's no need to say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Obviously I'm not _hoping_ you're going to die."

"Really?"

"Of course not. I'd prefer to be the dead one."

John allows this comment to absorb into his mind before saying, "That's very, urm, kind," meaning 'uncharacteristically so'.

"No, not particularly," Sherlock corrects him. "I just don't want to be the one alone."

John can't help the sudden feeling of awkwardness that sweeps over him. This might be the single most sentimental thing Sherlock Holmes has ever said to him. It almost goes so far as to admit feelings. Would Sherlock's feelings if John died equate to how John had felt after Sherlock's fall? Would Sherlock ever have to experience those feelings? John hopes not, for more reason than one.

He is glad Sherlock can't see his face all of a sudden.

"Ah, so that's it. That's why you were freaked out." Sherlock voice comes out of nowhere. "Because you were scared."

"Scared?" John replies after a suitably scornful silence.

"Not scared as an ordinary person would be," Sherlock reassures him. "It's noble to be scared of being separated from someone."

"Good try," John admits, "but no. I wasn't scared of being eternally separated from you."

"Are you sure, John?"

"I am sure."

It's close but not there yet. John isn't usually one for analysing his own emotions but right now it's pretty clear to him what he feels and why. The why is the easiest part:

_Sherlock._

It's always ambiguous as to how aware Sherlock is of his effect on other people. John has seen him manipulate so many and he has been manipulated himself a good few times as well. Sherlock definitely knows how to use emotions to his own advantage. Does he know what John is thinking in those sidewise glances? John dreads the idea that Sherlock might really know him for who he is. Though a small and secret part of him wants it to, because that small and secret part dares to hope his feelings might be reciprocated.

John shivers and pulls his jacket closer around him. He hadn't come dressed for a night in a basement.

"How long exactly do you think Mycroft will take to realise we're missing?"

"Why don't you try and work it out?" Sherlock already sounds bored.

"Well, he talked to us yesterday about that government official thing so he'd probably be trying get a response to that. Perhaps when his calls don't get through he'd go to Baker Street and ask Mrs Hudson and Lestrade what we were up to… It's going to be a while, isn't it?"

"If something significant happens to make him want our input, we may be talking a few hours. If not, maybe late tomorrow or the day after."

"And we can't even play charades," John comments dryly.

Time passes slowly from then onwards. Sherlock seems to slip away somewhere for a while. John wishes he knew what it is like, wandering inside that vast mind of his. The silence, darkness and the chill that is spreading through John's body makes him feel sleepy. He rests his head against the stair banisters and listens to the hum of the freezer. Thoughts drift across his mind that are only possible when he knows Sherlock cannot see his face and cannot possibly work out what he is envisioning.

"I know what you're thinking," Sherlock suddenly says.

"What?" John jerks head upright, flooded from cheek to cheek with fear. "No, you don't."

"You're thinking that this is all my fault."

John smiles with relief. "No, that's what you're thinking. Because it's the truth."

"You're annoyed with me."

"I'm always annoyed at you."

"No, you're not."

John sighs and shakes his head though no one can see. "No," he admits, "you're right. I'm not annoyed at you. I should be.

"You should. I persuaded you to break into a murderer's house."

"Yes."

"I closed the door and got us locked in the basement."

"It's true."

"We might die."

John chuckles. "I really, really should be pretty pissed off at you right now."

"Hm…" Sherlock says, contemplatively.

"Sherlock, if I hated you every time you put us in a deadly situation then I doubt we'd still be together right now."

"You think of us as 'together'?"

"Of course."

Sherlock makes a surprised noise.

"What?"

"No, it's… fine."

It almost sounds as if he was going to say 'good'.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

_Thanks for reading! I hope you like it. There will be more 'action' to come, I promise. What could possibly happen in a darkened room with two men totally crushing on each other..? ;) I'll just let your mind go there for now! _


	3. Chapter 3

At some point, John fell asleep.

They had talked for a long time, but time becomes a forgotten concept in the dark. They spoke about things that John had just assumed they never would, things that had happened before they had known each other. It had started with Sherlock explaining some of his more ingenious cases and then John spoke about things from the war and then about friends he'd known and lost and then Sherlock did something completely unexpected. He spoke about himself.

"For a long time," he began, "I thought I hated humanity."

"So does anyone who watches the news," John responded.

"You have no idea what it's like, John. You're just so ordinary."

John didn't even bother feeling offended by this. He could see in his mind the tortured look on Sherlock's face and felt the strongest impulse to sooth him.

"I could just see everything about everyone and it drove me mad. It drives me mad how flawed everyone is."

"Except you, of course." John laughed, though he knew Sherlock wasn't joking.

"No, except you."

John thought about what Sherlock was trying to say. "You are a good person, you know, Sherlock."

There was silence for a moment. Then: "How do you know that?"

"I do."

"But how?"

"Because," John said slowly, wondering if he was admitting too much, "you're the only person who makes me not care about being locked in a murderers basement."

"Then you must be a good person too, because you're the only one I could bear being stuck in a basement with."

John smiled to himself in a way that he would never let anyone see. "Thank god the place is soundproofed. You know what Lestrade would say if he heard us?"

"What?"

"'Get a room'."

They laughed and that was really the tipping point. The comfortable warmth inside John's stomach acted as a reminder of all the reasons he was madly in love with Sherlock. It made him finally admit the truth. "Sherlock, I wasn't freaked out earlier. I was angry."

"I know."  
>"No, I wasn't angry with you. I was angry at me."<p>

"I know," Sherlock said quietly. "My sense of sight may be somewhat impeded at present but I've still got several others."

John sighs in exasperation. Of course he knew. How could John have hoped he wouldn't?

"Go on," Sherlock said. "I like hearing you explain it."

"I'm not going to humour you."

"Yes, go on."

John jumped as he felt something touch his hand. It was Sherlock's fingers, winding their way around John's.

"I…" John suddenly couldn't think. What had they been talking about? The fingers were soft, smooth and cool and sent goose bumps all up John's arms. "I…"

"You were angry at yourself," Sherlock prompted him with a soft growl.

"I was. I was angry for following you mindlessly as usual."

"Everything you do is mindless," Sherlock said, but the gentle pressure of his hand against John's made it feel like a compliment.

"And I just keep agreeing to these dates and I keep coming up with excuses to not go on them."

"Good," Sherlock murmered.

"Good?"

"It feels good to hear you say that," Sherlock clarified.

John could feel his heart racing. "Sherlock…" But he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Fear isn't something that a solider should feel. But John felt it. He didn't want to know Sherlock's agenda. He didn't want to be told why Sherlock had decided to hold his hand. He had been let down before and didn't want Sherlock to tell him the news that he wasn't prepared to hear.

He just couldn't buy the fairy-tale.

"John?"

He said nothing and let Sherlock withdraw his hand without protest. He also let the silence drift between them and at some point John fell asleep.

* * *

><p>When he wakes, every one of John's muscles seems to be crying out in pain. Cramp is spreading up his legs from sitting on the basement steps and a chill has sunk through his skin and deep into his bones. He is shaking uncontrollably.<p>

"Sherlock?" he whispers into the darkness, his teeth chattering.

"You're cold," the comfortingly normal voice responds from nearby. There is the sound of steps and then Sherlock's coat drops around John's shoulders.

"No," John says, pushing it off and blindly getting to his feet. "Don't be stupid. I'm fine. For god's sake. I'm turning on my torch. Ok? I'm just going to turn it on." He roots in his pocket and quickly flicks the torch on. Sherlock is illuminated a few steps away, the shadows on his face making him look pale and ghoulish. John can't hold the torch still; his hands are shaking so much with cold. He sets it down on the steps so that the small room is very slightly lit. "What time is it?"

Sherlock stoops to pick up his coat. "Just wear it, would you?"

"What is the point of us both being cold?"

"My body has much better thermoregulation."

"What is it that makes you think your body is so much better than mine?"

"Observation."

John rolls his eyes and grudgingly puts on Sherlock's thick grey coat over his own, which is too long in the arms. "How long was I asleep for? I feel, I feel awful."

"Not long. You didn't miss anything."

John doesn't feel like humour. The thought of a warm bed crosses his mind and it is almost unbearable. This little adventure is quickly becoming agonising. "God damn Mycroft. Where the fuck is he?"

"John, you're getting agitated," Sherlock points out.

"I'm bloody cold!" John cries. "I just don't want to be here anymore!"

Sherlock steps forward and grips him by the shoulders. "You may be suffering from a mild hyperthermia."

It's hard to argue with this statement when his whole body is juddering beneath Sherlock's fingers.

Sherlock rubs his hands quickly up and down John's arms a few times and then, when this is obviously redundant, jerks the doctor towards him, crushing him into his chest. Sherlock's arms wrap around John as he tries to coax some heat back into his body.

"Sherlock," John protests as the detective's hands rub up and down his back.

"Hypothermia is, by all accounts a fairly pleasant way to die, if that's what you intend." Sherlock's voice is soft but his lips are so close to John's ear that he can feel the vibrations.

John's arms are pinned to his sides, but he can't help relaxing his head against Sherlock's body. He closes his eyes.

"John? Stay awake," Sherlock commands.

"I'm not dying, Sherlock!"

Sherlock stops rubbing his back and lifts his hands to John's face. His fingers feel hot against John's cheeks and ears. Sherlock's eyes look black in the dim torchlight. "How did you get so cold?"

"Living with you, I guess," John jokes.

"You're blue."

"I'm not."

"You are."

Their faces almost touch, as if Sherlock wants to feel how cold his lips are with his own.

"You need to warm up."

"You want to get me hot?" John translates.

Sherlock pulls his head back and says, "You're use of innuendo makes me think you're suffering mild confusion symptomatic of mild hypothermia."

Perhaps this is true because John's mind does feel foggy and slow. All that he can see or feel through the cold is Sherlock. That's all he ever wanted to see. Sherlock's smell surrounds him like a blanket and makes John grasp him closer. The ache to touch Sherlock overpowers the pain in his limbs. The closer he gets the closer he wants to be.

"John, there is one way…" Sherlock murmurs. He head is stooped down again so John can feel the warmth of his breath.

"I do want to…" John half admits. He doesn't say anymore but he doesn't have to.

Sherlock's lips press against his and with a jolt John realises they're kissing. It's not how John had imagined it. Oh no. It's so very much better. Sherlock's hot mouth pushes John's lip open and John moans as Sherlock's tongue begins to explore inside. One of Sherlock's hands is on the back of John's head, running through his hair. The other slips down to his waist and then snakes around to his arse.

"Sherlock." It's not a protest. All of John's blood is rushing to one area. Their bodies push harder together and John has confirmation that Sherlock is enjoying this too.

"You're feeling warmer already," Sherlock says, their lips still pleasantly attached.

"That's your only reason?" John smiles.

"Of course."

He freezes hoping like mad to have misheard. "Of course?"

"You need to get warm. This is a proven way of -"

"Please tell me you're joking," John moans.

"That's not to say it's not enjoyable."

John disengages himself. He's still trembling but now it feels a little more like anger. It had been too good to be true.

"John, what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong with me, Sherlock," John bites. "You're the one with the problem. I'm meant to be your friend."

"And?"

"That is not how people treat their friends." John begins to pace the small room, rubbing his own arms. There has to be a better way of getting warm.

"Come on, John," Sherlock says, sounding frustrated.

"What?"

"You know I'm not exactly comfortable with these conventions. What is it I'm _supposed_ to do?"

"If I tell you, would you do it?"

"If it made you happy, yes, I probably would."

"That would make a change."

"A change is what I'm suggesting."

"Is it?" John stops walking and inspects the detective in the half-light. He stands tall and confident as usual, but his face is distorted by discomfort.

"It is," he says.

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

He's right. Even when it angered or disappointed him, John always understood.

"Why?"

"You know why."

John smiles. "Just say it."

"I'm not going to say it," Sherlock shakes his head.

John smiles. "Tell me why you want a change, Sherlock."

"Do you prefer I express my feelings or demonstrate them? Because I clearly don't have the capacity to do both at the same time." Sherlock flips his hands up in the air in such an endearing way that John can't help stepping back towards him and taking hold of his hand.

"I'll say it then and you just nod."

"Alright then."

John clears his throat. "You want to kiss me."

Sherlock nods.

"You think I shouldn't be with anyone else."

Sherlock nods.

"You hope I love you."

Sherlock smiles ever so slightly and then shakes his head. "I know you do."

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

_NB: a concluding part to come! Hope you like it... :)_


	4. Chapter 4

_NB: Larzoid requested Lestrade and Mycroft reactions so I have attempted to deliver… ;)_

* * *

><p>It is suddenly possible to live and breathe Sherlock. Living Sherlock is inescapable. One minute in his presence and you are drawn into his ridiculous reality. John has lived Sherlock since moving into 221B Baker Street. He allowed himself to be picked up and shook around until all that he is or ever could be is him.<p>

Now, sitting on the step behind John, Sherlock's legs encase his own, his body is pushed against John's back and his arms wrap around John's chest, cradling his hands. With Sherlock's head burrowing into his neck from behind, John can feel the softness of lips as they nip along his skin. With every breath he takes, John can taste Sherlock on his tongue and feel him rush down his throat. And it's a small miracle knowing that he can now live and breathe Sherlock.

Realistically, it's too cold for them to shed any clothes, but John is enjoying the ecstasy of those minute patches of skin that are now allowed to be together. Hands, cheeks, lips, noses, were these things ever so important before?

"What do you think to this?" Sherlock murmurs through the darkness.

"Heaven," John replies.

"I imagined heaven as being considerablywarmer, lighter and more comfortable."

John smiles and squeezes Sherlock's fingers. "I'd take a basement if it included a Sherlock Holmes."

Silence falls between them once more. John wonders if the aching in his stomach is happiness or hunger.

"Look, John," Sherlock says in a more serious voice, "you know that this whole situation isn't exactly my field of expertise."

"Yes," John agrees, "but you're doing alright so far."

"Well, my success rate at getting you to recognise my intentions had been low up until now."

"What attempts did you make?"

"Plenty," Sherlock grumbles.

John has a tiny realisation and starts to laugh. "The underwear? Please tell me that wasn't your idea of seduction."

Sherlock doesn't respond which makes John laugh even more.

"You're right. This is definitely not your field of expertise."

"The fact is," Sherlock growls into John's ear, "that I am unavoidably going to make a mistake. This is something I've never attempted before."

"An experiment?"

"I don't want it to go wrong." There's something sad and gentle in his voice that is so unlike Sherlock.

"Well, that is pretty normal," John says, "for the start of a relationship."

"Normal?" Sherlock says dismissively.

"Being in love with a man isn't exactly my area either," John mutters. "This is going to be a learning curve for both of us."

"I just want you to know now that I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For whatever I do to fuck this up."

John turns to face up to the beautiful man straddling him the darkness. "Sherlock, what do you possibly think you could do that is worse than what you've already done to me?" He reaches up to find those lips and kisses them. The kiss, he thinks, proves another point. It proves that it is worth it. It's worth the dismembered bodies, the violin at ungodly hours, the mood swings, the experiments, the danger, the insults. It's all worth it.

* * *

><p>"Jesus Christ!"<p>

John's body jerks awake and his senses are immediately burned by the bright light. Sherlock must have been sleeping too because he feels the weight of the detectives head lift from his shoulder.

John winces through the harsh glare up to the top of the stairs. The door is open. Lestrade is staring at them with a look of abject disbelief on his face, shouldered by two policemen.

"Well," Sherlock says, getting to his feet, "you took your time."

"Were you two _cuddling_?" Lestrade demands, letting his mouth hanging open.

"Is that really the most pertinent question pertaining to this case?" Sherlock asks.

"Yes."

John buries his head in his hands.

"When did Mycroft contact you?"

"Half an hour ago. He's waiting outside."

"Mr Jones?"

"In custody."  
>Sherlock is already up the steps and out of the door.<p>

"John?" Lestrade says, his voice sounding bewildered.

John gets to his feet slowly. His whole body is aching. He looks up momentarily as he walks past Lestrade and makes an explanation. "I was cold."

Outside has never felt quite so _outside_ before. It is morning and though it's not sunny, to John it feels light and the air feels so fresh. The police are buzzing all around the house. As he leaves, a paramedic greets him and guides John over to an ambulance where a blanket is placed over his shoulders. He actually feels quite grateful for this.

He spots the Holmes brothers nearby. They are arguing and Mycroft keeps looking in John's direction and smirking. This leads John to the uncomfortable conclusion that they're arguing about him. The strange thing is Mycroft never seems particularly angry. He just gains this look of superiority that is no doubt the main cause of Sherlock's childish pout.

Eventually, Sherlock storms away from Mycroft and makes a beeline towards Lestrade who is now talking to Sargent Donovan by one of the police cars.

Mycroft looks after his little brother and then turns and walks with alarming purpose towards where John is sitting.

"So, Dr Watson," he says, in greeting, "you are embarking on a sexual relationship with my brother."

John can't help snorting with laughter.

"My presumption is incorrect?"

"No, it's just, good to see you too!"

Mycroft smiles a way that is designed to make you feel about five inches tall.

"Out of interest," John says, "did he tell you?"

"He didn't need to."

John shakes his head with a strained smile. "No, of course not."

"I am not going to pretend," Mycroft continues with a pompous air of condescension, "that you know nothing of Sherlock and his temperament, Dr Watson, however, I feel it is my duty to warn you -"

"That this isn't exactly his area? We've had that discussion already."

"No," Mycroft smiles patiently. "As usual it is my brother's wellbeing that I am concerned with. You have shown yourself to be an uncommonly loyal companion. Nonetheless, I am aware that sexual relations do have a way of complicating matters. Simply put, if you were ever to be less than loyal in your actions towards Sherlock, be assured that I would be aware of this and that it would be more than moral discomfort that you would endure."

John swallows and then clears his throat. "Right, well, I think you've made yourself clear there." He feels, not for the first time, genuine anger towards the elder Mr Holmes.

"I can tell from your annoyance that you feel this an unnecessary warning, but the human heart is nothing if not fickle."

"My parents have been married for half a century."

"How enriching for you," Mycroft sneers.

"Yes, well, thank you for that. Pleasure as always. I'll let you know how it goes." John gets up and takes off the blanket. He can see Sherlock looking in his direction and is well and truly ready to be going. "Though I don't suppose I'll need to."

Mycroft smiles in response.

John walks quicker than his legs desire him to, towards Sherlock. It has been the most uncomfortable, painful, unpleasant, wonderful and delicious night of his life. He longs for it to end but would do it all over again for eternity.

Sherlock gives him a small smile. "Home?" he asks.

"Oh god, yes."

* * *

><p>John had thought that he was too tired and sore for anything but, as usual, Sherlock proved him wrong. Their sex is frantic, swift and euphoric.<p>

Afterwards, John stares up at Sherlock's bedroom ceiling and wonders how it had taken them so long. The moment Sherlock began to kiss him it felt so instinctive. The things he had pictured were played out, except perfect in ways he could never have imagined. Now John realises that he will never be able to get enough of Sherlock.

"It's a proven way of improving blood flow and therefore decreasing cell repair time," Sherlock says, the words muffled and punctuated by kisses on the sensitive skin at the very top of John's thighs.

"Bullshit."

"We could prove it," Sherlock pops his head up from under the covers. "I'll make the calculations."

"Maybe next time."

Sherlock nods and continues his occupation.

"Come here, I want to kiss you," John demands.

"I'm busy."

"Finish that later."

Sherlock sighs and shimmies up the bed. He props his head up with an elbow on the pillow. John smiles and runs a finger down Sherlock's cheekbone.

"You know, for two amateurs - " John says.

"Yes."

"I think we did pretty well back there."

"Yes."

.

.

_The End._

_._

_._

_Please let me know what you think!_


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